I put pen to paper as I try to express my emotions.
I put blade to skin as I try to draw my pain .
I scream and shout as though life would look back and give me another chance.
After relentless echoes of my piercing wail I start to do my ***** laundry on the streets. Society glares at me with utter disgust.
What they see is a figure who does not belong.

I am a man in a foreign place, a foreign object I suppose.
Like a speck of dust I cling onto the open space..
May be someday I might belong somewhere, anywhere but here.
Because this place refused my ***** laundry.

My head falls deep into
Her shoulders, gently,
As she would not need to nudge.

My Arm finds its place around her back,
Stalking in good terms,
I lean and feel receptive touch.

I feel as though
My approach was out of place.
My hand throttles back, firmly, But in fluid grace.
I put it out in winter soft,
That she might not resort to sob.
I prepare to leave my seat as if told,
Remarking her that it was out of love